Sweet Like Cinnamon
by heartless16
Summary: A late night at St. Bart's morgue shows Sherlock that there is more to Molly Hooper than meets the eye. One-shot inspired by Lana Del Rey's Radio.


**Summary:** A late night at St. Bart's morgue shows Sherlock that there is more to Molly Hooper than meets the eye.  
>One-shot inspired by Lana Del Rey's Radio.<p>

**Song lyrics:** Radio by Lana Del Rey

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the song lyrics, or the characters.

* * *

><p>The staccato ringing of a phone cut through the chilling silence of the morgue laboratory, drawing its only inhabitant back to reality. Eyes blinked, refocusing after an arduous mission with the light microscope. The pink and green colors that were visible in the microscope lens now danced mockingly across the young man's vision.<p>

How long had he been here?

Methodically, hands began the task of storing away the microscope. The newly made slide was labelled and added to an ever-growing collection of slides, housed inside a chocolate brown slide box. The microscope itself needed to be wiped down and stored away, it was, after all a delicate piece of equipment. Normally he would not even bother, but it was after hours…and he was the last person in the laboratory.

His plan had been to leave hours ago…but the experiment he had been working on continued to yield such interesting results. One analysis lead to another, one more set of slides to prepare…he had forgotten just how tedious acid-fast stains were.

Still…the results were not satisfactory.

Standing, the man stretched, one hand reaching for his coat while the other withdrew the mobile from his inside pocket. It was a text message.

A grocery list.

The man heaved a sigh of annoyance. This was what ruined his concentration? Shattered the series of carefully compiled hypotheses he had assembled in his mind for the past five hours? His experiment was disrupted so he could pick up milk, and eggs and bread?

_Boring._

With a flourish, the man exited the room, closing the door softly and slipping the black leather gloves onto his hands. It was almost ten-thirty. How long did the supermarket stay open? The man wracked his brain, searching for that piece of information. A fruitless expedition; he must have deleted it; probably was not important anyway.

He had been fully prepared to leave. All he had to do was to turn the corner, go up the stairs and exit through the double doors. It was simple…routine. Something he had done countless times. Everything had always been the same.

Except tonight.

Tonight, there was music, wafting down the hallways like an invitation. A soft tune just begging for an investigation. But he could not…there were groceries to buy. The supermarket might be closing soon. John was waiting for him. Anticipating at any moment for him to open the door and trek up the stairs carrying bags of milk, eggs, tea, and vegetables that would probably spoil because he was using the crisper for an experiment.

The man paused, feet coming to a halt on the hard linoleum flooring. The nagging buzz of curiosity reverberated throughout his whole being. The urge was too great to resist.

The man turned slowly toward the sound, his movement stiff, like a figurine imprisoned in a music box. He began following the noise, each step bringing him closer and closer to the answers he so desperately craved. His footsteps came to a pause just at the door of an office marked 'Records'. So this was where the morgue kept the paperwork. A small frown worked its way onto his stoic features, why had he never entered this room before?

_"I've finally found you…"_

An eyebrow rose incredulously, the silky lilting tones of music were louder now. It was a song that, though he could not recognize, he identified the hushed alto voice accompanying the music.

Molly Hooper.

She was singing…it was something he had never associated with the pathologist. How could he have missed this?

Gloved hands stretched out, quietly pushing the already ajar door open further and slipping one tentative foot inside. His mind reeled with the new revelation.  
>His eyes roamed, taking in all the important details of the room: the tall, black filing cabinets lining the pristine white walls, the computer resting on the dark oak table in the far corner of the room, currently belting out the unfamiliar tune, and Molly herself, rustling through an open drawer softly singing along without a care in the world.<p>

"_Now my life is sweet like cinnamon,  
>Like a fucking dream I'm living in,<br>Baby love me 'cause I'm playing on the radio…"_

Impulsively, he fully entered the room, leaning against one of the cold hard cabinets and staring in wonder at the young woman before him. Molly Hooper was many things….smart, loyal, rather eccentric at times and somewhat naïve.

But she didn't sing….and she definitely did not curse.

Yet, here she was….standing in this cold and dreary room, altering the information and invalidating the evidence he had collected about the pathologist and stored away within his mind. She had ruined his deductions with a strange tune and lyrics that were nonsensically meaningless.

"_Pick me up and take me like a vitamin,  
>'Cause my body's sweet like sugar venom oh yeah,<br>Baby love me cause I'm pl-"_

Molly Hooper pushed the drawer shut and turned around, her voice trailing off suddenly. She blinked, brown eyes wide and a blush decorating her small cheeks. "Sherlock? W-what are you still doing here so late?"

He was silent, eyes taking in everything about her appearance. It looked like she had recently returned from a trip, judging by the rumpled state of her faded light blue jumper. She was wearing black, tight-fitting jeans, the type with fake back pockets. But, the material was not denim, so not jeans, but those odd stretchy 'jeggings' teenagers wore these days.

Obviously, she was looking for comfort. Her shoes were small flat plimsolls in the shade of an alarming electric blue, the style of which had no laces and did not cover her feet entirely. Probably not the best shoes for a laboratory, but she was supposed to be on holiday and not due back until Thursday.

"Sherlock?"

He blinked, her voice forcing him back into reality. "I thought you were still on holiday. They told me you wouldn't be back till Thursday."

Molly smiled. "It is Thursday." She turned down to the computer, eyes darting quickly as she stared at the screen. Her cheeks still seemed flushed in the florescent lighting, and she fidgeted slightly, feet shuffling left to right on the linoleum flooring. "Why are you here so late?"

"Ah." Sherlock clasped his hands together. "I was attempting an isolation streak. But the strain of bacteria I'm working with is rather…persistent." He looked down at the floor and back up. "I heard the music from the laboratory…I didn't know you could sing, Molly."

The young woman blushed. "I-I was visiting a cousin graduating from uni soon. Played that song so much it just got stuck in my head." A nervous laugh left her lips. "That happen to you before?"

He pursed his lips…how was he supposed to answer that question?

Such a phenomenon was unfamiliar at best. What did it feel like to have such a nonsense tune invading the mind…was it a good sensation? Wouldn't that be aggravating? Molly did not seem aggravated…in fact, she looked almost happy, if not a little giddy.

Perhaps it depended on the song? Could he compare it to the overwhelming tingle that raced down his spine when he picked up his violin? Was it like the rush of calm that invaded his mind when the sound of Tchaikovsky flowed smoothly from the sophisticated instrument?

"What am I saying; of course not." Molly answered her own question quietly; her voice a soft mumble that she probably hoped could not be heard. Clutching another thick manila folder, she turned back to the filing cabinet and began to sort through its contents.

Confusion settled over him once more as she continued arranging the cabinet, still humming and dancing slightly to the music that floated out from the computer speakers. He watched her, stared at her long, usually straight brown hair that now draped across her shoulders in loose, flowing waves. His eyes traced over her figure, taking in her small hips that now, in those ridiculously tight 'jeggings', seemed not-so-small…

Sherlock turned his head to stare at the white walls, hoping that the odd heat he felt in his cheeks was not visible. "You look… different. Your cousin studied fashion design?"

Molly's brown eyes narrowed as she turned around once more, watching him intently. Her hand had stilled from the erratic movements her fingers made on the keyboard. She seemed almost suspicious, wary. "How did you-"

Sherlock waved his hand nonchalantly. "The earrings. Obviously hand-made with low quality materials. The design itself is rather unusual, a triskelion which, if I'm not mistaken is of Celtic origin? A gift, I assume?"

Molly blinked. "Yes, but-"

"The workmanship is completely at odds with the rest of your jewelry, frankly I'm surprised you even put it on at all. In fact-" Why was he doing this? Saying all these things? Why did he feel so… uneasy all of a sudden?

Molly's brown eyes watched him with bewilderment. She stepped away from the computer desk, having shut the device down and retrieved her jacket. Shrugging the overcoat across her slender frame, the young woman snatched her purse from the floor and headed towards the door. "Um, shall we?"

Sherlock quickly stepped through the door, waiting just outside with his clenched hands jammed tightly in his pockets. The awkward sensation of nervousness floated up in his chest as he watched her saunter down the hall, that silly tune still floating from her lips.

He followed her…..unable to comprehend why.

* * *

><p>"Y-you don't plan on walking me home, do you?" Molly asked suddenly as they left the hospital into the chilly cold air. "Only you probably have more important plans and I-"She trailed off, running her hands nervously through her bouncy, curly hair.<p>

Sherlock eyed her for a long moment, following the movements of her hands as she pushed the wind-blown hair from her face. His hand clenched the phone in his pocket with frustration. Why was he feeling these…sensations, this unexplainable urge to touch her hair, to trail those soft looking curls through his fingertips, the bubbling desire to kiss her lips…._to know if she tasted like cinnamon._

The consulting detective looked away, stifling the confusing urges as he observed the dwindling presence of people roaming about the towns. A small smile touched his lips. "John wants me to pick up groceries. Groceries are boring."

Molly lifted an eyebrow as she turned to face him, a burst of laughter leaving her lips suddenly. "You're walking me home to avoid picking groceries?"

"I hope you don't mind," Sherlock replied as they waited at a busy intersection for the lights to change.

"No-not at all", Molly said with a timid laugh as she fiddled with her coat sleeves.

A rather comforting silence fell between the consulting detective and the pathologist as they walked down the dimly lit streets of London. Sherlock could not help but feel somewhat unnerved…most of the time any silence between him and Molly was…awkward at best.

Ice blue eyes observed the young woman intently, noting the way the tips of her shoes scuffed against the pavement at random intervals, as if she was tripping over some invisible barrier. If he did not know her, he would have assumed she was slightly clumsy.

Her stride however, was anything but.

Molly Hooper walked with the poise of a dancer, with light, graceful evenly spaced footfalls and the perfect posture. She exuded confidence, a self-assuredness that Sherlock had never noticed, or perhaps never bothered to observe.

The consulting detective watched her as she walked slowly down the pavement, slowing her stride occasionally to peer at the clothing shop displays; it seemed Molly was also an avid window-shopper. She was rather meticulous in this regard; he noted that the pathologist lingered at the displays of short, brightly patterned dresses, knee-length pencil skirts, high waist trousers and chunky heeled combat boots.

It was hard to picture Molly in any of those items.

By the time the two had reached her train stop, Sherlock had attempted, and failed, to draw up any memories of the pathologist clad in any of the styles she seemed to admire.

He continued to ponder the intricacies of Molly's sense of style…drawing many blanks. It was almost impossible to imagine Molly working in the hospital morgue dressed in a bespoke suit jacket, starched button down and fitted pencil skirt; or strolling down the streets of London in a short flowered dress, dark opaque tights and heavy laced combat boots.

The consulting detective watched her as she made her way into the train station, his body still tingling from the one-armed hug she hurriedly and awkwardly pulled him into before dashing in to the building. That absurd song had long since invaded his thoughts, the somewhat haunted tones echoing throughout his mind palace alongside Molly's quiet alto.

Sherlock was unsure if that was a good thing.

* * *

><p>"-lock."<p>

"Sherlock!"

Ice blue eyes flicker, moving from the spot on the wall to the exasperated face of his flat mate. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, sweeping over the room quickly and noticed that John was in the midst of unpacking the groceries. He couldn't even remember buying them.

"You forgot the eggs." John noted casually as he rustled through the bags on the table. "Did you even _look_ at the list I sent you? What are we supposed to do with all these carrots?"

Sherlock stared at the bag John was holding up, trying to mask his own confusion. Did he really purchase all that? Waving his hand nonchalantly, he answered. "They were on sale. Besides, carrots are good for you."

"You don't even _eat_ carrots, Sherlock!"

"Oh."

The consulting detective's mind drifted again, attempting to organize the new and puzzling data he had collected about Molly Hooper. She had a surprisingly decent singing voice, but when he mentioned it, she blushed with embarrassment. The pathologist was fond of silly pop tunes but Sherlock could not conclude if it was genuine interest, or an influence of her cousin in university. Though Molly dressed in plain, loose fitting clothing, she seemed to have an eye for trendy outfits.

Molly Hooper was full of contradictions.

"Sherlock."

He looked up and stared at his flat mate, who sat in front of him holding out a plate of toast. At least what looked like toast? Narrowing his eyes, the consulting detective eyed the doctor. "What is this?"

"It's toast. Well, cinnamon toast."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "What?"

John shrugged. "You melt butter on toast; sprinkle it with sugar and cinnamon? An old friend mentioned it in Afghanistan." He set the plate on the detective's lap, rolling his eyes at the incredulous look in Sherlock's eyes. "_You_ bought the bloody cinnamon! What else am I supposed to do with it?" He stood then, turning to retrieve his laptop. "Just eat it; you haven't had anything for three days."

Sherlock blinked as he stared at the plate, and then back at John several times. Did he really purchase cinnamon? A small smirk spread on his lips at the irony. Gingerly he lifted a slice and bit off a small piece. Molly's voice grew louder within his mind palace, the low melancholy tune and the soft alto of the pathologist echoing repetitively.

Sherlock took another bite of the toast.

_Sweet like cinnamon, indeed._

* * *

><p>How was it? Please review!<p>

~heartless16


End file.
